


Checkmate

by Thene



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Chess, Electricity, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Sado-Masochism, Snuff, Torture, perverting canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thene/pseuds/Thene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sigint at Shadow Moses Island, alone again with the old friend who taught him how to play chess and how to enjoy torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to plus5pencil for the prompt: _Someone gets captured. Electrotorture (electrosex?) and orgasm denial ensue._
> 
> Warning for snuff.

"Your mental shielding is very strong."

"Tell me something I don't know." Donald tried to make the words sound hopelessly defiant, as if he were a helpless hostage clinging to scant defences. He hoped his petty comeback was convincing enough to pass for human. Age, power and security had made him leave many instincts in the past, blocked off behind psychic resistance implants, AI personality backups, pseudonyms, front organisations, tame governments - shell upon shell of systems of control. Survival had once been everything to him. Now he didn't even know how to fear for it any more.

Even shackled to the interrogation device and staring at the gaunt and faceless killer who had floated up from the ground until their eyes were level, he couldn't panic. Neither did he feign it; since the uprising he'd been cloaking himself in the supposed dignity of a bureaucrat who assumed his release would soon be negotiated by Washington and who refused to stoop to his captors and show fear. He did not belittle these deluded pawns or their artificial leader.

He did not throw sly glances towards Ocelot.

And who was there to fool? The psychic who didn't believe anything his mind couldn't see. The disguise artist who observed the people around him as if they were all actors in a play. The giant who regarded him as if he were a foul smell - as if technology's roughshod march over everything he valued were Donald's personal fault (true enough, though his understanding was nothing for Donald to shrink from). The assassin who didn't care about him because she had not been ordered to make him die.

And Liquid Snake. He had his father's youthful naivete; coupled with the dumb pride of his later years. Liquid's entire life had lead him to this moment. It was hard to fear a man you'd helped design.

That left only Revolver Ocelot. Donald could see him skulking behind Liquid's shoulder, wearing a frown that offered as little to Donald as Donald had offered to him. He fancied they were acting as if they were two pawns, incapable of contact, positioned on opposite sides of the board only on account of the plans of others.

Donald often thought, and planned, in terms of chess. He'd first programmed a chess simulation in 1971 - it had been crude in the extreme. Subtlety had taken time. In his defence, he'd been new to the game himself; he had been learning it from Ocelot, Major of the GRU.

(He did not believe there was a time when one stopped learning chess from Ocelot. Often, merely being in the same room as him was enough.)

 

*

Liquid Snake was angry. He was the kind of person who used his emotions to intimidate - Donald had not needed to be briefed of that before coming to Shadow Moses, as he'd known it since before Liquid Snake was born.

"Mr Anderson." Seeing this bright-eyed fury face-to-face was the glimmer of a reminder of what it had been like to be vulnerable to harm at the hands of another. "When you came here, you brought with you something that we need. A code, a simple detonation code. Now, we had no desire to harm you." His voice rose with the outburst of sarcasm. "We had hoped -" Liquid looked to Mantis, floating and so lacking a stance, masked and so lacking an expression, a telepath communicating nothing, not even apathy "- to take what you knew without having to cause you any...suffering."

"And if you had, I would be dead by now." It was a plain fact. That was how a good defence worked; due to wise moves Donald had made early on in the game (many decades ago, soon after the San Hieronymo incident had proved that psychic powers were a reality), his opponent's assault would be harmlessly repelled.

Liquid continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You still have a chance to save yourself. Tell me the code, and we will guarantee your safety. We may even let you go free."

"_Free_? On an island in the Arctic Ocean?"

"...I see." Perhaps Liquid hadn't expected any other end to this discussion. "Then I'll leave you with Revolver Ocelot. Farewell, Mr Anderson. I hope you don't make this more difficult for yourself than it has to be."  
(Chess had made him better at programming had made him better at chess. It was all about feedback loops. It was all about knowing what would happen next. Anticipating the endgame.)

 

*

The door slammed shut behind FOXHOUND, leaving the two of them safely alone. Before Donald could say a word, Adam drew his gun and fired at a wall. _Neat_; the bullet ricocheted into the security camera above the door. Ocelot blew a kiss to the end of the barrel and twirled the revolver back into its holster - and that was the Adam he knew, unchanged by the years, still as playful as he was patient, as if his mind were half-child and half-machine. "Alright," Donald said, feeling his shoulders relax against the steel table. "Thanks. Now let me down from here."

Adam strolled around the table in a slow circle, his hands, as Donald turned his head to see, now held behind his back. "What, already? But we haven't even begun."

He sagged against the unforgiving metal. "Ocelot -"

"Sigint, my friend." It had been years since he'd heard that name. "It's so long since we've had an opportunity to spend time together like this."

...Years since he'd felt the warm tingle of intimacy and pleasant anticipation - that feeling of coming back to one of the only people left who could surprise him. He'd programmed the rest of the world to follow a neverending loop in order that he and his friends, his fellow-Patriots, could feel this sense of liberation. And Ocelot expressed it as he'd always expressed it, ever since the old days; Ocelot enjoyed taking prisoners.

Ocelot and Sigint were complementary. He thought they'd discovered it in the same jealous moment, as he'd listened to a friend's agony over a transmitter. He'd felt confused then, and afraid of himself - afraid of what he wanted and _wanting_ to be afraid. For Ocelot, everything seemed to be a little simpler.

He remembered long-ago chess games and the night hours after his inevitable defeats. It's the simplest moves that can be the most devastating. Sometimes, Sigint had won.

(It was easier when he knew which game they were playing.)

 

*

Ocelot raised his head up to match Sigint's elevated position, dry lips pressing against his neck, hands unfastening clothing and seeking out places to hide. By the time Ocelot wrapped his hand around Sigint's cock it wasn't what he was _doing_ that was making him hard; it was what he knew Ocelot was _going_ to do, soon if he were lucky, later if Ocelot was feeling particularly cruel. He felt the warm readiness for pain, the feeling blinking like a command line he had no control over. (If so, it was the only one left.) It felt like a cracked window that looked back to youth and wonder, and Ocelot was standing on the other side of it waving a crowbar.

It was ever-so-casual, the way Ocelot stepped back and leaned against the control panel and flicked a switch without even looking behind him, still staring at Sigint with his lips parted and his thin cat-eyes gone dark. Sigint felt the burn pass from one spread hand to the other through his entire upper body, and he shuddered in his bonds, hearing himself scream through a wall of heat and static.

Ocelot made a small satisfied sound in the back of his throat. "Enjoying yourself?" There was no point denying it - Ocelot could see very well. He'd never been any good at hiding his desires from his opponents. "It must be a long time since you've experienced this tension. I'm sure you've missed it."

"...I've...missed...you."

Through cloudy eyes, he thought he saw Adam smile. "Then shall we go again?"

(Maybe that was what made Ocelot different from himself, or Oh, or Clark. Ocelot didn't try to defeat tension. Everyone had stressful, violent urges, and while others suppressed them in the name of order, Ocelot simply found himself an outlet. He had one now. Sigint's flesh was plugged into it.)

 

*

Sigint had learned how to survive torture. Looking back it seemed like it had been their plausible excuse, their cover story - but the idea was meaningful enough at the time they'd invoked it. _Everything_ they'd done was for survival, survival of themselves and their own, of their ideals, of her ideals, of _her_. All their curiosities were learning exercises in disguise, though sometimes (the time Eva stole all their files from a young CIA clerk and burned them on a gasoline fire, or the night Snake and Ocelot broke into the New York Aquarium together) it wasn't really such a great disguise.

Watching Ocelot now, it was easy to see where he'd started on this path. A huge rig wired to pass live currents through other human beings. A chance to stand back and watch their torments without getting his hands dirty.

It was a simulation of a man long-dead and unlamented, and Sigint was hanging from it, strapped at the ankles and wrists. The current pulled him taut between the reflexes that fought to drop the livewire, and his helplessness to do so.

Ocelot was talking. Sigint wondered if this was where the interrogated gave in - listening to hard words about fierce ideologies while their ears rang with pain, answering the questions to make it stop, or (if they were like him) to beg Ocelot to make the pain go on. The voice was filtering in from that distant place where Ocelot stood with empty, unblemished hands as he watched the pain happen. They were words from the past. Memories talking, causing raw and pleasant hurt.

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger," said Ocelot. "A motto Big Boss used to live by."

"Big Boss..." Sigint was forcing the words out, smelling singed hair on every breath, "used to live."

"So did the rest of us. What we have done - building this edifice of control - has forced the world into a stalemate. We are free men who constructed our prison around ourselves. We prepare complex stratagems like this little revolution - but when did you last taste the cruelty of _life_, the real play of strength against weakness?" Ocelot drew a harsh breath. "I've missed you too."

Sigint saw Ocelot move and gritted his teeth, sure he was going for the switch again. Ocelot stooped, resting one knee on the floor, and Sigint didn't realise what he was doing until he felt dry lips wrap around the head of his cock.

He could have withstood more torture. Not this. Not gentle wet pressure and smooth, rapid slides of Ocelot's tongue - pleasure signals forced down burned nerves - oil on flames - short circuits. You couldn't dual-boot a human body. You couldn't play both sides at once, resisting and giving in, numb with agony and tumbling towards joy.

He was inches from the edge when Ocelot stopped moving, lips still wrapped around him. Sigint felt his body try to thrust forward. He couldn't. His bonds fixed him too tightly in place, and Ocelot was pulling away, breathing softly onto the tip of his cock, and the slight sensation - the being held back, the straining forward, the tension - came close to breaking him. _Not close enough._ He wanted it too badly and Ocelot wasn't through with his cruelties yet.

Sigint's expectations were in tatters - tugged too hard in too many directions. He watched Ocelot raise a hand and expected more gentleness, but Ocelot's grip wrapped vicelike around the base of his cock, knuckles digging into places better left alone, and then he began sucking again. Hard and relentlessly steady, stoking bloodflow that had nowhere else to go.

He could do nothing but hang there and trust that Ocelot - Ocelot who was making him scream, Ocelot who was sucking him off - was going to honour their fellowship and finish this, finish him. You survived torture by trusting your torturer. That was the only way he'd ever known it to be. "O - Ocelot..."

He was released all in a moment, as Ocelot swept to his feet. "Something the matter?" Immediately, he pulled the switch again.

(Interrogation was a form of computing, Ocelot had once told him. The goal was acquiring information, calculating answers to your questions, but instead of ones and zeroes you used pain and the quiet minutes between the applications of pain.)

*

He could tell the endgame was approaching by the dwindling of resources. The board was cleared of clutter, defences becoming skeletal and your most powerful pieces were in your opponent's hands, taken. There was a purity of thought there, indecision swept away by the knowledge that the pawns were gone and every decision now mattered. Any move could be fatal. Any touch could be the last.

"Finish...me," he begged.

"Sigint." Ocelot was facing away from the torture table, playing with the dials on its control panel with both hands. "For you, this has always been a matter of trust. You joined us because you trusted us to be the world's guardians. You came here to play hostage because you trust me to ensure your freedom, in due time. Pain is trust. I've seen that, every time I've touched you with it. You think you're hanging there, suffering, because you trust me?"

He nodded slightly. The words were peripheral. He was hurting and breathing and smelling ozone and the burned flesh of his fingertips and feeling all the warmth of all the pain collecting in his cock, and Ocelot - tormenting him from a few yards distance, words and switches when he wanted contact again. He _wanted_. Ocelot's mouth again, his thin eyes open. If Ocelot would do that for long enough to do more than to add to his torment. That wasn't his way. Not any more. Ocelot -

"No, you old fool. You're hanging there, suffering, because I haven't let you go. And nor do I intend to. Can you take one more?"

_No._


End file.
